Chapter 5
DIANA
One of the biggest parts of my childhood has burnt to a crisp.
And the most important person in my life is gone.
I can’t fucking feel anything. I can’t feel my heart in my chest. I can’t feel the breeze that hits me. The only thing I can feel is the weight on my eyes; I didn’t sleep at all last night, because the tears wouldn’t stop. Cathy had come over as soon as she heard the news, and my friend held me throughout the night as I cried. I had hoped I would exhaust myself and fall asleep because of it, but I couldn’t. All I could think of was my dad. Gone.
He’s gone, and I don’t know where the hell I go from here.
The weight on my heart is heavy, suffocating, as I stand in the middle of what remains of Slice of Life. The once peach-colored walls are crumbling and covered in soot, as is most of everything else. All of the appliances are charred and mangled, completely unsalvageable. The tables and chairs are also burnt, unusable. To see this place in this state. . . It’s brutal. But the pain that comes with this is nothing compared to the pain of knowing that not only is this place gone, but so is the man that brought it to life.
They found my dad in one of the small back rooms that he had transformed into his office. Fourth-degree burns had afflicted him so badly that they wouldn’t even let me see him. The EMTs and doctors all said my dad wouldn’t want me to see him in such a state; they were able to identify him through dental records, so I didn’t have to identify him myself, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved that I didn’t have to see him or not. On one hand, I know I would never recover if I saw my dad laying there, lifeless, with horrific burns covering his body. It would be an image that would haunt me for the rest of my life.
But on the other hand, the last time I saw my dad was when I pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek to rush off to a date that never even happened.
Now, dad is gone, and everything is fucking empty.
All because of—what did the police say it was?—a faulty electric cable? My gaze sweeps the remains of the bakery, and my stomach churns. The moment they told me that earlier this morning, giving me an apparent reason as to why any of this happened, something didn’t sit right with me. Because I know my dad. He’s invested all of his years and money in this place, and there is no way in hell that there was a faulty anything in the bakery. Dad is religious about the upkeep of both the bakery and the house, so I don’t believe for a second that there was a cable wire that needed to be fixed and that dad hadn’t done it right away.
I make my way further into the bakery. I don’t think I’m supposed to be here, given that there’s caution tape on the door and windows of the building, but I don’t care. In the back, I look around the breakroom, which is worse than the main part of the bakery, if that’s possible. I vaguely remember a firefighter telling me that this is where the fire had originated, the walls and floors a deep black color, the smell of smoke still lingering in the air. The fliers that had been tacked onto the bulletin board above the round table where we sit for lunch breaks are gone together with the board, having been burned in the fire.
I sniffle as I look around, eyes burning more and more the longer I stay here. But I keep the tears at bay as I try to find something—anything—that could explain why this happened other than the bullshit cable wire. There’s so much to do, so much to think over; dad’s funeral arrangements, the insurance on the bakery, and the employees who now don’t have jobs. It’s all mine to take care of. But still, I don’t leave.I open the top cabinets, the metal doors warped from the heat, revealing the broken dishes that didn’t escape the fire, before crouching down and opening the bottom ones.
The third one I open, I look through the mess of melted bottles and containers of cleaning supplies we had. Toward the back, something catches my eye, and I carefully reach inside and pull it out, uncaring of the remains of bottles that tumble outside. I’m too busy staring in confusion at what’s in my hand.
It looks like the remains of. . . a gas tank? Why the hell would that be in here? There’s no need for one in the bakery, and I’ve never seen this before. I can vaguely feel the beating of my heart begin to pick up its pace the longer I observe the item in my hand. Could it be. . .
Did someone set this place on fire?
Could there be a chance that this was arson and not an accident?
Was. . . Was my dad murdered?
That thought alone squeezes all of the air out of my lungs, making it difficult to breathe. A panic attack is building up inside of my body, I can feel it, but I try to stave it off. I try to refocus my thoughts and keep it together. Nausea rolls, but I push it back, eyeing the gas tank.
Could. . . Was Bruno Cataldi behind this? Some kind of sick, horrible act because I refused the offer to be his children’s nanny?
My frown deepens, the words not settling right. No, it wouldn’t make sense for him to do this—not when he owns this building. He wouldn’t set one of his own properties on fire, one that is bringing him money, would he? I toss the theory around, but it doesn’t fit well.
The gas tank is charred, half-melted in my hands. This wasn’t an accident, and the idea of it makes my head spin, but I try to regulate my breathing. Because if this was done on purpose, if my dad was taken away from me at the hands of someone else, then I need to focus and get this theory to the police. They need to know. If someone did this, they have to pay for their crime. I would make sure of it.
*****
“Ma’am, I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do.”
I gape at the investigator, wondering if I heard him right. “Nothing you can do?” I repeat in disbelief. “What are you talking about? I’m telling you—this isn’t ours! It’s a freaking gas tank—someone set the bakery on fire!”
I probably sound hysterical; I know it, I can hear my own voice. But my dad is fucking dead, and this cop is telling me that they aren’t going to look into it. He’s lucky I’m not throwing the remains of this gas tank at his fucking head. My blood is searing in my veins, my heart hammering as if it’s trying to beat out of my body. I know people, other officers, are looking at me, watching all of this go down, but they don’t intervene. I don’t pay them any attention, my scowl fixated on the lead investigator in front of me.
Detective McCarthy—more like detective Useless—just stares at me, impatience flashing across his eyes. “Miss Elliott, I think it’s in your best interest not to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong,” he says, and his words sting because how could I not want to know more? Dad is dead, and there’s a possibility that he was killed on purpose, as crazy as it may sound. “You should be at home, grieving. Not trying to stir trouble.”
My lips part, incredulity stealing my words. The look in his eyes is hard and intense, and a shiver rolls down my spine as another wild thought creeps through my head. Does he. . . Does he know something, and he’s hiding it from me on purpose? Does he know that it wasn’t just some faulty electrical cable and that the fire was set intentionally?
Is he covering for someone?
I sound like I’m spinning out of my head, but I can’t help it. Being a nanny for so many years has my senses heightened for any sign of trouble, having to take care of kids and always know their whereabouts and what they’re doing. And right now, I can feel it in my bones that something is not right. Like an itch that I can’t scratch.
But I know that the answers I want, I won’t get here. Detective McCarthy clearly isn’t being forthcoming, and the thought of my dad’s killer being out there with no repercussions is inconceivable. I came back home to be with my dad, and now he’s been taken away from me. I can’t let that happen.
So, if the cops won’t help me, I know someone who will be able to. I just have to accept a job offer first.